


Reservations

by AnnetheCatDetective



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And There Were Consequences, In Which A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-14 05:36:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19266889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: There's some competition for Aziraphale and Crowley's usual table at the Ritz...





	1. I Know 'Cause I Was There

          The thing about a Miracle—not an ordinary, everyday miracle, but a real, serious impossible Miracle—is that it’s a one-off by nature. It can’t happen twice. Even across multiple universes, some things aren’t meant to be replicated. And when they are, things happen.

 

          The thing that is happening to Aziraphale, currently, is that his and Crowley’s usual table at the Ritz, the table which is always free for them, is taken.

 

\---/-/---

 

          “I don’t understand.” He frowns. “That’s our table. It’s always open.”

 

          “Must have forgot.” Crowley shrugs. Reservations were usually his department, though now and then Aziraphale takes the job on—Aziraphale usually prefers to make a phone call, but even without one, they always have their table. He gives Aziraphale’s hip a squeeze, arm slung around him. “Or I must have been _distracted_. Come on, angel, we’ll get a table in the garden. They’re serving those oysters you like…”

 

          “Tempting as that is.” He frowns, though it softens at Crowley’s eyebrow waggle. “No, today is a special day. _Thirty years_ , Crowley. I want our table, we’re only in London for the weekend. I’ll just tell the gentlemen there’s been a mistake.”

 

          “Suppose there hasn’t been?” Crowley says, though it’s mostly for the sake of saying it. He’s not about to stop Aziraphale freeing their table up by nefarious means. It just bothers him, something about it. Watching two strange men toast to something, and laugh, and lean in to talk, at their table…

 

          “Of course there has been, you wouldn’t forget. Not today. Not on an _anniversary_.”

 

          “Mm.” He nods, ambling after Aziraphale. Not their wedding anniversary—they’ve never had a wedding, but they’ve been married enough, and for nine hundred and sixty nine years longer than they’ve been… well, the kind of married couple that has sex and lives together. This is the anniversary of the day they decided to take that particular plunge, and while their marriage anniversary could happen anywhere, they’d started this phase of their relationship at the Ritz and the Ritz is where they celebrate it. Now that they don’t live in the city, they actually give themselves a night in the hotel.

 

          The strangers at their table are an odd match. Then again, he supposes he’s one to talk. He moves to stand behind Aziraphale, as he comes around to address the blond in the… get-up.

 

          “Excuse me, my dear fellow, but you look a reasonable gentleman.” Aziraphale says, and he’s not putting his full angelic influence behind it— _yet_ —but he’s on his way there even without any ethereal powers. “And I do hate to be a bother, but you see, I do believe this is our table.”

 

          “Oh. Er. I don’t _think_ so.” The man frowns, and he turns towards his companion—a man who almost attains style, in Crowley’s opinion, but seems to be trying too hard. Sunglasses with sides, though, that’s a good idea. “This _is_ our table, isn’t it?”

 

          “Of course it is.” The companion rolls himself up out of his slouch. “Piss off.”

 

          “I do beg your pardon!” Aziraphale huffs. “I am _trying_ to be polite—“

 

          “You’re interrupting our tea. Paying good money to be here, not to be interrupted by you and your _friend_ here. Or did you pay good money for—“

 

          “ _Really_ , now!” Aziraphale cuts him off, reaching back for Crowley’s arm. “My _husband_ reserved this table specifically. It is our anniversary. I know he reserved this table because this is our table, it’s where we—It has always been our table, and we sat right there, right where you’re sat, the day we—And I shall _not_ have you spoiling our anniversary! I _will_ go and get someone.”

 

           “Angel.” Crowley strokes his arm, but he is not in the mood to be calmed. He is not in the mood to eat out in the garden bar, where they can’t get the same menu. He is not in the mood for the rock oysters, he wants scones. He wants sandwiches. He wants the lovely tea which strangers are currently enjoying at _their_ table. “I’ll make it right later.”

 

          “You can’t.” He frowns at him. He knows Crowley means he’ll do something awful and inconveniencing, but that doesn’t solve their problem.

 

          “I’ll make sure we have the table for dinner.” Crowley promises, two fingers under his chin to tilt him to make eye contact. “We can do the six course dinner.”

  

          “That’s not the point, the point is I know you didn’t forget to reserve our table for our anniversary.” He shakes his head, and turns his attention back to the blond gentleman, who at least seems nervously, silently apologetic for his friend, hands twisting in front of his chest. This time, when he speaks to him, he _pushes_. “I’m certain we can resolve this little matter without any need for further unpleasantness, but you see, we simply _can’t_ rearrange the date, it’s an anniversary. And I know—“

 

          Most people, by now, would be falling over themselves to agree to make things right, or if not, they would at least be politely and sympathetically listening, needing more time and work to get there, but this man—no, both of them—both of these men now stare at Aziraphale with undisguised horror.

 

          “No.” The blond whispers. Grips at the edge of the table until his knuckles are white, tears in wide green eyes. “No, don’t.”

 

          “My dear boy, I—I really needn’t make trouble with management if you’re so worried.” Aziraphale frowns.

 

          “Don’t, you let us go. What are you doing here, now? You let us _go_.”

 

          “You go to management if you want to.” The redhead snarls—snarls at him!—leaning forward like he’s ready to spring. “I’ll fight every last one of you if I have to. Thought you learned your lesson, but if you want to go an honest round with me—“

 

          “I—I don’t—“ Aziraphale takes a slight step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, there’s no need for any of that, I’ve said. But I don’t understand what’s wrong here.”

 

          “Oh.” Crowley whispers. “ _Shit_.”

 

\---/-/---

 

            Aziraphale has never been so gloriously happy. He wishes he knew how to say it, how to tell Crowley the reason for his happiness… how to say everything. Last night, he’d naively hoped that things would just be different now. Now that they’re free. But…

 

            Things are better, yes. It just isn’t the magic change he’d thought it might be. He doesn’t know how to change things, when he’s run from them for six thousand years.

 

            And yet, that does not take away from the happiness he does feel. Crowley is so good to him, and all the things he was afraid of before, he doesn’t have to fear anymore, but how far is he allowed to go? Did he lose his chance at something more? But what else could he have done?

 

            And yet, and yet, and yet…

 

            “Perhaps—“ He begins, and stops when he sees Crowley tense. It’s nearly imperceptible, but he knows him so well. So well and yet never well enough… He turns, to see what had tensed him, and sees two men making a beeline straight for their table. “Oh…”

 

            There’s an older man, not quite Aziraphale’s height, stout. Everything about his appearance from the neck down is neat and precise. He’s wearing a very smart tartan suit, actually, which Aziraphale rather wishes he had the confidence to pull off, but it’s a very _bold_ tartan, isn’t it? Perhaps it is time to update his wardrobe just slightly… but he doesn’t know a suit is the answer. His shoes are white and spotless.

 

            When he approaches the table properly, it’s clear to see he’s fastidious about his hands, as well.

 

            From the neck up, he’s a bit less put together. His hair is most certainly too long. Blond and pale like his own but… greyer, somehow, without really being grey. He might be fifty-five or so, it’s difficult to say—the words ‘well-preserved’ float to mind. Blue eyes, and a face which might have had a strong bone structure hidden somewhere in it, but which seemed to be made up mostly of rosy cheeks. Brow drawn as if to say ‘oh that is unfortunate’. A small, pink cupid’s bow of a mouth pursed in a moue Aziraphale has learned to dread on customers, the kind of look that says ‘I have several questions and don’t wish to leave without what I want’.

 

            His posture is good. He moves with a certain grace and he folds his hands before his belly, poised, and tilts his head just so, and Aziraphale does not want to deal with this while he’s trying to have lunch with Crowley, but… he supposes he has very little choice in the matter. He wonders if an admiring comment on the green carnation at the man’s lapel would smooth things?

 

            In sharp contrast, there’s a man not more than thirty-five—and perhaps as much as ten years younger than that—who slouches behind him. No tie, Aziraphale notes—though strictly speaking, he supposes Crowley doesn’t wear a proper one either, and he doesn’t chide him. The young man wears dark glasses and a red suit, over a black shirt. Rather loud, he thinks, rather flashy. Like some sort of… he doesn’t hardly know.

 

          “Excuse me, my dear fellow, but you look a reasonable gentleman. And I do hate to be a bother, but you see, I do believe this is our table.” The man says.

 

          “Oh. Er. I don’t _think_ so.” He says. No one has ever tried to take a table Crowley had arranged before… All the times they’d met at restaurants, in all the years they’d been meeting, no one had ever. He looks helplessly to him, and feels a relief no words can encompass at the way Crowley sits forward, all cool confidence. “This _is_ our table, isn’t it?”

 

          “Of course it is. Piss off.” He adds, to the strangers, which is a bit much… Aziraphale had only wanted them to understand the table was spoken for and to go away and… and not be offended, but just… just not be their problem anymore.

 

          “I do beg your pardon! I am _trying_ to be polite—“

 

          “You’re interrupting our tea.” Crowley says, looking them both over. The stuffy one and his bloody gigolo. He and Aziraphale finally get to relax, to go out with nothing hanging over their heads, and this is when someone tries to get his table out from under him? He smirks, and moves in for the conversational kill. “Paying good money to be here, not to be interrupted by you and your _friend_ here. Or did you pay good money for—“

 

          “ _Really_ , now!” The man says, scandalized, but not into leaving. Stauncher than Crowley had given him credit for, it seems. “My _husband_ reserved this table specifically. It is our anniversary. I know he reserved this table because this is our table, it’s where we—It has always been our table, and we sat right there, right where you’re sat, the day we—And I shall _not_ have you spoiling our anniversary! I _will_ go and get someone.”

 

          Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say, pastes on the best ‘please don’t do that’ smile he can. He’s never been good at that smile, he’s not sure why he bothers. His attempts range from irritated to terrified, always more rictus than not.

 

          “Angel. I’ll make it right later.” The husband says, and Crowley and Aziraphale both feel a slight… squirm, deep inside, at the familiar endearment on unfamiliar lips.

 

          “You can’t.”

 

          “I’ll make sure we have the table for dinner. We can do the six course dinner.” The husband entices, with a soft sibilant lisp. Aziraphale thinks he would be enticed by such an offer. Not by such a youthful face, he doesn’t suppose, but… the young man has attractively sharp features. Hair glossy and dark, carelessly tumbling over just one side of his brow. He tries to imagine being a human, being attracted to just people, and still doesn’t know if he would be attracted to this one. He knows he would be attracted to the six course dinner, though.

 

          “That’s not the point, the point is I know you didn’t forget to reserve our table for our anniversary.” The man says, and then he turns to Aziraphale, and he isn’t a man, oh _fuck_ , oh no, he isn’t a man at _all_. Ethereal force buffets him with every word, but he no longer hears the words, he only _feels_ what the stranger _is_ , an angel. “I’m certain we can resolve this little matter without any need for further unpleasantness, but you see, we simply _can’t_ rearrange the date, it’s an anniversary. And I know—“

 

          “No. No, don’t.” Aziraphale pleads, but his voice is gone. And then he does pick a word out, ‘management’, and he wants to weep, to scream, to rend his clothing and beat his breast, hasn’t he done enough? “Don’t, you let us go. What are you doing here, now? You let us _go_.”

 

          He can feel Crowley beside him, like he’s coiled and ready to strike even in his usual shape.

 

          “You go to management if you want to. I’ll fight every last one of you if I have to. Thought you learned your lesson, but if you want to go an honest round with me—“ He threatens, and Aziraphale leans towards him. They can’t do this, not here… not at the Ritz! Not when… not when everything was all right at last!

 

          “I—I don’t— I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, there’s no need for any of that, I’ve said. But I don’t understand what’s wrong here.” The angel says, giving them room.

 

          “Oh. _Shit_.” The angel’s husband hisses.

 

\---/-/---

 

            The thing about Miracles is, they aren’t always intentional. Aziraphale and Crowley had caused one once quite by accident, as they sat at their table at the Ritz, and quietly slid their hands towards each other across the table, and said the words they had been holding back for so many years. They had understood certain things, they had even joked now and then about how they were more married than most married couples, but had always pulled back from the obvious conclusion.

 

            Each had privately considered the marriage a real thing, since 1,020 AD. They just hadn’t kissed before the Ritz. The first one felt like coming home.

 

            In that moment, when they confessed all and allowed themselves a new kind of closeness, they had let an impossible thing happen, and the ripples moved ever outward, through the folds in the universe.

 

            Well. Universe _s_.

 

            Aziraphale and Crowley had also let an impossible thing happen at the Ritz—this Aziraphale and Crowley who sit there now. They had not spoken explicitly of love. Their hands had not met across the table. There had been no first kiss in the offing. But they had gone to great lengths for each other. They had strove, and suffered, and felt a monumental shift in the course of their existence, their shared existence. Just because it isn’t spoken, doesn’t mean it isn’t worth a Miracle.

 

            The problem was only that it was the same impossible thing, and in that moment, lines were crossed, and someone picking up the cosmic receiver in one universe got a bit of conversation from the next universe over.

 

            That bit of conversation just happened to be Crowley and Aziraphale.

 

\---/-/---

 

            ‘Oh shit’ was, perhaps, an appropriate enough sentiment, but Aziraphale wrinkled his nose at it just the same.

 

            The sudden surge of demonic energy was unmistakable, though—When he had gone to make the suggestion, it pushed back, not from the frightened blond man, but his dining companion. It’s so like Crowley’s that Aziraphale is thrown by it, and thrown by everything the two have said, by the idea that the… demon… might wish to fight the m’aitre d’? He’d only wanted his table, why are they so afraid? He hadn’t even known he was facing down a demon until that moment.

 

            “I’m really not here on… _their_ behalf.” He gestures meaningfully upward, his focus turning to the demon. “If you’re not here on… _theirs_?”

 

            “Yeah. Retired.” Crowley adds, with a faux-calm, drawing a little closer. “I think we’d better talk… privately.”

 

            Time stops, and Crowley grabs at Aziraphale’s arm.

 

            “Did you do that?” He asks. “I didn’t do that.”

 

            The other demon raises his hand, slouching into his seat, but he’s still bowsting-taut and ready for a fight.

 

            Aziraphale summons up two more chairs, feeling it might be more comfortable were he not looming over the poor things.

 

            “If you want to talk, talk fast. When time starts up again, I’ve got nothing to say to you. Not after you tried to kill him.”

 

            “I haven’t tried to kill anyone.” Aziraphale does try not to pout—sends the wrong message. He hasn’t even contemplated it in thirty years, and even then… well, he’d not had much stomach for it. “Why would I try to? Are you also a demon?”

 

            The blond chokes back a sob, hurt glittering in his eyes, hand going to his breast. “Of _course_ I’m not—I—I mean, I—I don’t… I don’t know _what_ I am now…”

 

            “Don’t be stupid—You know what you are.” The demon presses, just barely shifting towards him. “Nothing’s changed on that front, angel.”

 

            _Angel_. He couldn’t be… and yet, that would explain his terror.

 

            “It’s like we’ve said. I’m rather what you’d call retired from the business.” Aziraphale says, and tries to look reassuring. “I only wanted our table, for our anniversary.”

 

            “Oh.” The angel says, in the lost tones of one desperately trying to steer a conversation towards pleasant waters, against a very strong current, and with disagreeable headwinds. “How long have you been together?”

 

            “Thirty years.” He smiles a little more warmly.

 

            “Give or take nine hundred and seventy.” Crowley rounds up. They’re close.

 

            “Ah. Congratulations.”

 

            “Angel.” The demon huffs. “So you’re not here for us? This is all just some… cosmic accident?”

 

            “Yes. I’m hardly who they’d send after—well. No, I’m hardly who they’d send. Er… if you are what I think you are, no… That is, I don’t know who you are.”

 

            “Hushed it up that quick, have they?” The demon laughs mirthlessly.

 

            “Aziraphale.” The other angel says listlessly, smoothing out the tablecloth and staring down, and Aziraphale startles. “Principality.” And then his lip wobbles. “Traitor.”

 

            “You have me at a disadvantage.” He says. Had he been recognized on reputation, when he’d suggested he was sympathetic to an angel and a demon…?

 

\---/-/---

 

            “You have me at a disadvantage.” The angel says, and Aziraphale’s eyes snap up.

 

            “What?”

 

            “You know my name. But I don’t know yours.”

 

            “N-no. I just told you. _Aziraphale_.”

 

            “That’s not possible.” His reassuring smile falters. “ _My_ name is Aziraphale.”

 

            The angel’s husband’s jaw drops.

 

            It keeps dropping.

 

            “What’sss going on here?” He rakes a hand through his hair, nervous. “Angels don’t reuse names.”

 

            “No, no… we must have stumbled into something stranger than that.”

 

            “Stumbled into a champagne tea for two and pulled yourself up a couple of seats.” Crowley growls. “Scaring us half to death throwing your powers around. Time’s up.”

 

            It restarts, but the other two don’t rise. The angel’s husband’s jaw clicks back into place, and he seems to stare at Crowley, which doesn’t help Aziraphale’s nerves any.

 

            “We both reserved this table.” He says slowly. “Because it’s our table. Because you’re me.”

 

            He pulls his glasses off, and Crowley gasps softly.

 

            They aren’t the same, exactly. They’re… snakier. But that’s how Crowley’s eyes had looked, once upon a time. His Crowley doesn’t meet them for long, turns towards the other Aziraphale instead. But he takes his own glasses off. Aziraphale turns to him as he does, and nearly rests a hand on his arm, and stops.

 

            “Then… we’re safe, aren’t we? It’s all right?”

 

            “Yeah.” Crowley says, though not with much conviction. “Don’t worry. Obviously they’re not here to hurt us, or… we… Table’s ours, though, we’ve got our stuff already. So the _piss off_ still stands.” He adds that on for the…

 

            The other them.

 

            “We’re going to need to talk.” The other Crowley stands. “Come on, angel. We’ll have dinner. We can’t take this from… You know?”

 

            “Oh, I suppose.” The other Aziraphale takes the other Crowley’s hand to rise from his own seat, and Aziraphale feels his insides lurch watching them.

 

            Their anniversary. They do this, and they call each other ‘husband’, and—and who knows what else! Why can’t he live in that world?


	2. I May Be Right

    Aziraphale, who had been looking forward to celebrating thirty years of kissing Crowley with champagne tea in the most beautiful dining room in the world, is not much appeased by the secret garden bar, though there _is_ champagne, and though he _does_ like the rock oysters, and _very_ much likes being fed them by his husband. It is still nicer to have their anniversary meal out somewhere than to eat it in their suite, as if they were hiding from the world. He doesn’t mind eating other meals in their suite, though the dining table is very grand for just the two of them. But he likes to be _seen_ together.

 

    He would enjoy the meal even more if he thought it would be followed shortly by a round of vigorous lovemaking, but instead, he fears it rather crucial they intercept their other selves to discuss what is happening and how to un-happen it.

 

    He is also concerned by the thought that if the other Crowley and Aziraphale had their table reservation, they might also be booked into the same suite. At least it has a second bedroom but he’d rather not share, just the same.

 

    A hotel, he reasons, is something of a liminal space. That must be a part of it. There must be a thinning in the folds of reality which could only happen here, and not, say, in the safe confines of their cottage.

 

    Aziraphale, who had been looking forward to perhaps having his hand held, perhaps saying something like ‘you mean a dashed awful lot to me, Crowley’, is not feeling much better than his counterpart. The remainder of their tea is somewhat spoiled by having this hanging over them, and he no longer knows what to _say_ to Crowley, when they’ve seen these… these other versions of themselves, touching each other, throwing around the word ‘husband’.

 

    It doesn’t take away his appetite, but he does eat the remainder of the scones in an agitated manner.

 

    They shall have to talk again, they shall have to determine who is in the wrong place, and if any of them are in the right one. They can’t shrug it off as just one of those things and never think upon it again, they have to _deal_ with it, and he feels he’s dealt with so _much_ over just the past two days, not to mention the eleven years prior…

 

    A hotel, he reasons, is something of a liminal space. That must be part of it. There must be a thinning in the folds of reality which could only happen here, and not, say, in the safe confines of his bookshop.

 

\---/-/---

 

    Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves lingering outside the dining room, in the end.

 

    “You’d better come up to the room.” Crowley says gravely, suddenly seeming much older than when they’d last all spoken, though his face hadn’t changed.

 

    “Oh.” Aziraphale blinks, glances between his own Crowley and the other pair. “Yes, I-- I suppose we ought. _Not_ \-- not for anything sexual, of course!”

 

    “Why on earth _would_ it be?”

 

    “I don’t know! Because that’s what people _do_ , in hotel rooms.” He says, clearly panicking. “Or-- what people _talk_ about doing, if they had another version of themselves to-- experiment with.”

 

    His Crowley raises an eyebrow at him.

 

    “Well they do! You overhear awful things sometimes!” He huffs and turns away. “You overhear awful things!”

 

    “We are not interested in doing any of that.”

 

    “Er-- Crowley?”

 

    “Yes?” Both Crowleys say, as Aziraphale is looking at neither of them.

 

    “Flip a coin to decide who takes which name?” One of them suggests.

 

    “That doesn’t help us, does it?” Aziraphale tugs at his waistcoat nervously. “Only got the one.”

 

    “Well, yes, but one of us can still use the alias.” The other Aziraphale tweaks the flower in his buttonhole.

 

    “Oh, I haven’t in so long…”

 

    “What do you mean haven’t?” He frowns. “Don’t you _talk_ to people?”

 

    “... Yes?”

 

    “And they just call you Aziraphale, do they?”

 

    His voice gets smaller. “Yes?”

 

    “Oh, lovely. _Wonderful_. You just go about giving everyone your real name, that’s brilliant.”

 

    “Then _you_ can use an alias.” The other Crowley sneers at him, chin jutting forward. He steps towards the other Aziraphale, but doesn’t move to put an arm around him, to touch his hand. “If you’re so brilliant at it. You a whiz with aliases?”

 

    “I certainly know how to use one.”

 

    “People don’t care, though, people don’t remember.” That Crowley asserts. “Long as there’s a normal looking name over the door of the shop, no one notices anything funny about his name, or if they do, they forget.”

 

    “Surely friends find it odd.”

 

    The pair look at each other, frowning.

 

    “Why would he?” The other Aziraphale says.

 

    “Right. Room. Come on. We’re not having all this out in the bloody lobby.”

 

    The elevator ride is silent and uncomfortable. _Don’t you have other friends_ , Aziraphale wants to ask his other self. _Don’t you talk, really talk, to anyone but each other_? True, no human friends can ever be what Crowley is, none of them can understand, and you have to be prepared for how brief their lives, but… to not have them at all?

 

    “What alias do you use?” He asks at last, as they exit onto an empty corridor and head towards the suite. “When last you used one?”

 

    “A.Z. Fell. It’s the name on the shop.” The other Aziraphale says, and at least that is familiar, is comfortable.

 

    “Yes, all right. What does the ‘A’ stand for?”

 

    “Er, ah… Aziraphale?”

 

    He smacks a soft palm to his brow and lets it slide down his face. “I shan’t ask what the ‘Z’ stands for, I don’t think my heart could take it.”

 

    “What about you, then, if you’re so clever?” The other Crowley challenges. He stands by to let everyone precede him into the suite, wary of being in an enclosed room with the other them.

 

    “The ‘Z’ on the sign over _my_ shop stood for ‘Zepheniah’.” He says. “And the ‘A’-- er, Crowley, do you remember, was I Albert then, or was I Abraham?”

 

    “Oh, I don’t know. You’ve done both. Got much better since the first time you tried giving yourself a human name, but you know… you kept cycling through them. Course, you spent a solid month letting me believe the ‘A’ stood for ‘angel’, that first time…”

 

    He laughs softly at the reminder, and leans up to kiss his husband’s cheek. “Yes, well. You’d have called me ‘angel’ regardless, I didn’t think there was any call to correct you.”

 

    Crowley leans down to return the peck, before leading everyone in to sit, the two comfortable loveseats facing each other.

 

    “I’d better take ‘Ezra’, then.” His Aziraphale sighs heavily. “For the time being. Since it is what people call me. Since I do not give my angelic name to strangers on the street. Goodness, it’s only the first thing they tell you not to do. Don’t give your name, say ‘be not afraid’, and add on a ‘do not worship me’. Basic beginners’ handbook, that.”

 

    “Angel.” His Crowley-- Anthony, for present purposes, there’s no question it should be done in pairs-- settles an arm about him. “Let it go. You don’t do much angeling nowadays anyhow.”

 

    “Even so.” He sniffs.

 

    “How do we fix this?” Aziraphale asks, his hands spread. He and Crowley are each nestled against one of the arm rests of their loveseat.

 

    “That… that is the question.”

 

\---/-/---

 

    What is going through Ezra’s head is this:

 

    First, that his thirtieth anniversary is spoiled. He has the gift in his pocket, which he had commissioned from a jeweler, a beautiful reproduction piece of a Victorian tie pin, a snake coiled around a pearl, jaws wide to devour it, it’s their pearl anniversary, and that _means_ something to him, or it had, before this whole mess.

 

    Second, that this other version of himself is so unbearably foolish that he doesn’t know what to think. Has he ever been so stupid? Handing his real name out willy-nilly?

 

    Third, that the others do not touch and that is _wrong_. Even now, as all four of them share a confusion and a trepidation, as they clearly need comfort, they won’t.

 

    Fourth, that it will be important to note where their home universes diverge, to understand why they are all here, but more importantly to understand what is the matter with the other them, to make them like this.

 

    Fifth, that he hopes the six course dinner is very good tonight, to make up for everything he is missing, and he would very much like the tea he’s missed out on.

 

\---/-/---

 

    What is going through Anthony’s head is this:

 

    First, that his husband is upset and there’s very little he can do about it. For that matter, he’s upset, but ‘upset’ does him very little good here. It’s his turn to be cool and collected and to say ‘there, there’. When he needs to blow up, he trusts he’ll be tutted over and petted at until he’s soothed.

 

    Second, that there is something very wrong with the other Crowley. It’s in his posture, in the taut lines of his face, in the way he draws in on himself, the way even now he looks ready to fight to the death with nothing but whatever object in the room he can first lay hands on.

 

    Third, that there is something very sad about the other Aziraphale, whose hands twist nervously, whose eyes are so wide and guileless… Here and there he sees the resemblance between this Aziraphale and his own, in posture, in the way they speak-- he’s known his own to be like that in times of trial. And yet… well, his Aziraphale is… happier, more comfortable, even now more comfortable.

 

    Fourth, that he wants them gone, he wants them out, he wants his world to himself again, he wants not to have to feel sorry for them because they are frightened and sad, why should he, why must he feel sorry for them?

 

    Fifth, that a stiff drink would not go amiss.

 

\---/-/---

 

    What is going through Aziraphale’s head is this:

 

    First, that this wasn’t how lunch at the Ritz was supposed to go at all. In all his imaginings, it has never gone so terribly wrong. And he has long imagined it, how Crowley might escort him into the beautiful dining room, how they might be seated together, with a view of all the opulence, how they would be dressed… He always dreamed they would be able to enjoy it, but they’ve been twice now and always something has to hang over them.

 

    Second, that he’s very mean in this other universe.

 

    Third, that the other Crowley, Anthony, looks much, much too young, but he walks with his hips the way Crowley does, and he speaks the way Crowley does, but he kisses the other Aziraphale, he’s kissed his cheek, and Aziraphale would die to be so doted on, and it isn’t fair at all, really.

 

    Fourth, that they should have had a picnic. They could be holding hands right now if they’d had a picnic. A soft tartan blanket and a big grassy expanse, and a hamper full of treats, if they’d done that, he thinks, he might be holding Crowley’s hand and watching him bask in the sun. They might be enjoying their new freedom.

 

    Fifth, that the comfort of a nice cup of cocoa would go a long way towards making the world bearable.

 

\---/-/---

 

    What is going through Crowley’s head is this:

 

    First, what the _fuck_? And for that matter, _why_ the fuck? Who the fuck seems obvious, where the fuck might be worth asking, and when the fuck is perhaps a stupid question, but he’ll ask it. How the fuck remains a distant and unfathomable concern.

 

    Second, seriously, _what the fuck_? This is the bloody… the Prince of Wales suite, this is a ridiculous level of luxury, and… and they’re here for their anniversary? Thirty years, give or take nine hundred and whatever the _fuck_ the other Crowley had said?

 

    Third, he doesn’t like Ezra at _all_. He’s glad he’s given them an alternate name he can use, because he absolutely refuses to call him ‘other Aziraphale’! _His_ Aziraphale is… is sweet, retiring, _gentle_. Not snappish and… and critical! Crowley doesn’t remember any bloody beginners’ handbook telling you not to tell people your name if you liked! And why _should_ Aziraphale go by some other name? Why would he have to? No one cares, and if they did, he’d like to see them say something, and… and it’s a lovely name, and why should anyone take issue?

 

    Fourth, that he should have… He doesn’t know what, exactly. He should have done something different, somewhere, but he can’t figure out where or when. He can’t figure out what. Said the right words at any point in his miserable life, and maybe he wouldn’t be here or maybe he would be celebrating his thirtieth anniversary.

 

    Fifth, he’ll be absolutely useless without serious caffeine, and three espressos might about do it.

 

\---/-/---

 

    What happens is this:

 

    “Does anyone want tea?” Ezra asks, when no one seems to have much to say. He rises to his feet, expecting someone to say yes.

 

    “If you’re putting a kettle on-- er, unless there’s cocoa.” Aziraphale nods, with an expression of somewhat pained gratitude.

 

    “I could do with something stronger, if there’s coffee.” Crowley says, though there’s a wariness lurking in it.

 

    “I could do with something stronger than that.” Anthony groans, and rises as well. “You put the kettle on, angel, I’ll pour the real drinks.”

 

    “Do you really think that’s going to help?”

 

    “We can sober up if we need to, but I’d certainly like a stiff one before we begin.”

 

    “Very well. If everyone is partaking, you may pour me a _small_ brandy.” He says. “I’ll be back shortly.”

 

    Anthony makes the silent offer to the other two, from the bar, but they both shake their heads.

 

    He pours his husband a small brandy anyway.

 

    When Ezra does return, it’s with the hot water, three cups, a tea bag, a packet of cocoa, and a french press with a scoop of espresso grounds waiting. He gratefully accepts his brandy as his tea steeps.

 

    “Thank you.” Aziraphale says softly.

 

    “I think it’s best, now we all have our drinks, if we try and start from the top, to figure out how we got in this mess.”

 

    “Oh-- yes. Yes, suppose so.”

 

    “I can’t think of anything we’ve done,” Ezra continues. “In the past thirty years, at least, which would lead to this. Though perhaps in terms of large-scale cosmic repercussions, we should look at… well. I assume you stopped-- er, no, well-- I assume you were _present_ , when the end of the world was stopped.”

 

    “Yeah.” Crowley nods. “Quite a day.”

 

    “Angel, you can’t ask ‘was there anything out of the ordinary about your armageddon’.” Anthony huffs, though there’s affection in it. “Besides, there’s got to be something more recent than that.”

 

    “Something more recent than yesterday?” Aziraphale’s brow furrows, and Ezra and Anthony both turn to fix their gazes on him.

 

    “Yesterday?” Ezra gasps.

 

    “Thirty years ago, for us.” Anthony says. “I think you’d better tell us everything…”

 

    “Oh! Well.” He brightens, nodding. “In the beginning-- or shortly thereafter-- Well, of course you are familiar with the dramatis personae, but anyway, as I was standing about and mostly just minding my business, like you do, I found myself approached…”


	3. I May Be Wrong

    There are familiar parts to the story. They’d met in much the same way, had some of the same misadventures, though something bothers Ezra the longer he listens to his counterpart carry on through the highlights of his and his Crowley’s journey towards the present.

 

    “And then… you know. World saved.” He shrugs at last. “And that’s when we had to foil the planned executions, but I’m sure that went the same as it did for you.”

 

    “I’m sorry, the what?” Anthony leans forward.

 

    “Oh-- er, you know. How Heaven and Hell wanted to have us… removed.”

 

    “ _No_ …” He says slowly, looking between the pair of them.

 

    “And we had to switch faces?”

 

    “ _Nooo_ …”

 

    “Oh.” Aziraphale looks over to Crowley helplessly.

 

    “If you didn’t have to switch places to keep both sides from going nuclear option on your arses, what did you do?”

 

    “Nothing. They just sort of… elected to ignore what we did. Pretend the whole mess never happened.”

 

    “I’m sorry, I simply can’t.” Ezra surges to his feet, everything clicking into place. “Did I give up my table to you, on my thirtieth anniversary, and you weren’t on yours? You weren’t on any sort of anniversary at all?”

 

    “They were on their first date. Same as our first date.” Anthony reaches up to put a hand on his arm, but he ignores the attempt at comfort, his own attention fixed on Aziraphale.

 

    “It was _not_ the same as our first date. Not at all. Because they are _not_ the same as us, because _he_ is not the same as _me_!”

 

    “Oh-- well--” Aziraphale twists his hands together, shrinking somewhat.

 

    “How _dare_ you, you _spineless_ cretin, how _dare_ you treat the love of one who loves you so callously? You _take_ and you _take_ , you selfish imbecile, and what do you give to him? _Heartache_ , half-made promises you rescind whenever he asks of you anything. You let him do for you, while you cower in fear of putting yourself forward!” He thunders.

 

    Aziraphale reels back, stricken. He looks as if he’s been slapped, and Ezra needs a deep breath to remind himself that he is not the sort of being to do exactly that.

 

    “Hey, you can’t talk to him like that!” Crowley pushes his way between the two angels-- two of the same angel. However little either might wish to admit it in the moment.

 

    “My dear--”

 

    “No. _No_ , I’m not ‘your’ dear, you said yourself we’re not like you, right?” He tears his glasses off, glaring, everything about his posture an open threat display. “ _You can not talk to him like that_.”

 

    Ezra does not for a moment consider any version of Crowley capable of harming any version of himself, however angry. He gives his own counterpart a cool look, raising one eyebrow.

 

    “And have you anything to say for yourself, or will you hide behind him again? As it seems you always do.”

 

    “It’s not like that--”

 

    “I didn’t ask you. I asked him. Surely he can speak for himself.”

 

    Aziraphale fades back into the cushions of the loveseat, his breath hitching, his expression crumpling. “It is, though, isn’t it?”

 

    “You’ve done things for me. You just didn’t feel the need to talk about them. We’d be here all day if we went over every little thing we’ve done for each other.”

 

    “Every little thing _you’ve_ done for _me_ , you mean.”

 

    “China. Seventh century.” Crowley frowns.

 

    “That doesn’t count, you’d… you’d done something for me. You always do something for me. I always repay you horribly. One wonders why you put up with me at all.”

 

    “One certainly does.” Ezra says under his breath, only for Anthony to yank him back to sit down.

 

    “You are not helping, angel.”

 

    “He needs to hear it.”

 

    “Just being here we’ve ruined any chance of their having things happen organically, and now you’re berating him, angel, he just got through a bloody traumatic experience. Attempted executions on top of that.” He frowns gently, winding his arms around his partner. “You were like him, once.”

 

    “I certainly was not.”

 

    “Once. You’ve been selfish, you’ve wanted things from me and been afraid of repaying them in kind. Do you know how I felt then?”

 

    “N-no-- was I?”

 

    “Not for six thousand years, but once upon a time. I loved you. I gave you time.”

 

    “Six thousand years is too much time, begging your pardon.”

 

    “It is.” Anthony agrees, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Ezra’s mouth before letting him go. “But it’s not for you to fix.”

 

    “ _Someone’s_ got to. Haven’t they? How could-- how could we go so wrong?”

 

    “ _We_ haven’t. Come on, you are helping me take the dishes into the other room. Let _them_ talk.”

 

    “I don’t see how you’re defending him treating another you that way, I really don’t.” Ezra sniffs and gathers up empty cups.

 

    “Kitchen.” He urges.

 

\---/-/---

 

    Aziraphale had thought he might breathe a little easier without his other self in the room, but he doesn’t find that he does. Crowley sits down on his side of the loveseat, once they’re alone, no longer feeling the need to physically guard him-- which, of course, is just his hiding behind him again…

 

    “I’ve been very unfair.” He manages to say at last.

 

    “We both have.” Crowley shrugs, his voice soft. His hand rests between them.

 

    Aziraphale wonders what it would be like if he dared take it. “You’ve done everything for me for so long.”

 

    “You’ve… let me do things. Things I couldn’t do, if we didn’t have the Arrangement.” He stumbles over the words, pushing each one out, struggling even at a near-whisper. “You’ve let me do good. And I’ve wanted that. And I’ve wanted to show you… things I couldn’t say. And you let me do that. And I… I know I haven’t let you do the same in return.”

 

    “Goodness, when you would’ve had the opportunity to refuse me… I don’t-- I don’t do enough for you.”

 

    “The thing is, I think I understand now. I don’t think I really understood before today. You did, though, didn’t you? You… When did you understand? What I meant, doing things?”

 

    “I never was sure. I hoped. I hoped it was your way of saying…”

 

    “It isn’t yours.” Crowley says, and Aziraphale’s mouth falls open, he has to push himself to speak again before the hurt can settle on him. “It isn’t your way of saying. Not that it’s meaningless, when you do. First time we met, you kept me out of the rain, and I do remember that, even if it wasn’t in your retelling. You’ve tried to speak my language from time to time, I think, but it doesn’t come natural to you the way it does me. Maybe in another world we speak the same one, but you and me…”

 

    “We have our moments, don’t we?”

 

    “Course we do. It just… it took me long enough. I understood what you meant, when you did do things for me. I understood what you meant when you wanted to spend time. I never… I never understood you needed the words. I wouldn’t let you say them. Not even ‘thank you’.” He looks down at his own hand.

 

    Aziraphale edges his own closer, and stops. “It’s all right.”

 

    “Is it?”

 

    “Things-- things can be different now. Can’t they?”

 

    “Of course they can, we both can. I just… I don’t like him thinking it’s all you. Your little retelling cast me in a good light, that’s all. Gush about everything I do right and leave out everything I do wrong. Leave out the fact you… Maybe you don’t think to do things for me, but you’ve never refused me something I’ve asked of you.”

 

    “I feel like it’s all I do.”

 

    “Yeah, the first time But… you ask me for such little things, when you even ask at all. It’s easy to do them. I don’t ask you for the little things. I asked you to defy Heaven-- to _defy_ them, for me, and that’s no easy thing. And you’ve done it. Our Arrangement, in the first place, so you needed convincing, but you came through for me. The holy water. And if I’ve asked you for a miracle, you’ve done it. If I’ve needed you, you-- you come through in the end. Even if I have to ask twice.”

 

    “I didn’t, when you asked me to go away with you. I-- I wanted to.”

 

    “You were right not to. I… lost hope. I didn’t think we stood a chance. But, Aziraphale, we’d have died. I always knew… the end of everything wouldn’t stop here. They would find us in Alpha Centauri. The only hope I had left was that we’d have enough time to say all… all of this. All the things we’ve started to say and can’t seem to finish. Then at least when they cut us down, you’d know. And maybe I’d be in your arms at the end.”

 

    “ _Oh_.”

 

    “You were right to that time. Look… I won’t lie and say it’s all been roses with us, that I’ve never been hurt. We both have, but it’s behind us now, isn’t it? I don’t _want_ you to not be greedy. _Like_ when you’re greedy… it’s very human of you. If you couldn’t be greedy, I couldn’t be good.”

 

    “Oh, Crowley… But I _am_ sorry. I am.”

 

\---/-/---

 

    It doesn’t take long at all to line up all the cups and glasses beside the sink, but they linger just the same.

 

    “You feel better?” Anthony Crowley asks, rubbing his husband’s back in slow circles.

 

    “No.” Ezra leans over to look through open doors, down to where the other two sit, and Anthony follows his gaze. “Crowley, why don’t they touch each other?”

 

    “They’re figuring their whole thing out.”

 

    “Yes, but you always touched me. And I you. When it was right to. If one of us was upset. They’re so upset and they won’t, I-- I can’t bear it.”

 

    “Hold me.” He winds himself around Ezra, nuzzles in and breathes in the scent of him. “Hold me. There you are…”

 

    He gets as much comfort as he gives, he thinks. His angel’s arms are gentle but firm, they press on him just enough to make him feel real when the world goes mad. And the way he smells… it grounds him, it feeds him, it soothes him. Inflames him, too, now and then. Just not… right now.

 

    He doesn’t like it, either. He doesn’t like feeling like he’s messed things up for his other self by showing up, but what can they do?

 

    Well… maybe they can-- not ‘fix it’, but…

 

    “I’ll clean up this mess, but you owe me.” He smiles, nuzzling at Ezra’s ear. “Yeah?”

 

    “Anything in the _world_ , dearest. _Anything_. You are my rock, my knight, my--”

 

    “Yes, yes.” He pulls back, making a face-- smiling when his husband retaliates with a quick kiss. “All right, all right, quite get the picture. Save your praise for the bedroom.”

 

    “I have in me enough praise for you for every room.”

 

    “Kinky. What say we extend our stay? Nothing pressing at home… I know it’s not the same as having our perfect anniversary, but… let’s have a couple more days in London. Let’s take each other out to all our old familiar places…” He sways with him a little.

 

    “In that small cafe, the park across the way…” Another kiss to his waiting cheek. “You do know how to cheer me up. Thank you, my dear. Really. Er… Well, suppose-- Suppose having a little more time, we did a botanical garden? Tomorrow?”

 

    “Yeah. I’d like that.” He returns the kiss, and moves from his arms at last, peeking back out at their counterparts.

 

    He can do this. He knows he can do this. He has decades of daytime television on his side. There are no therapists equipped to deal with what Aziraphale and Crowley have been through… but there’s _him_.

 

    He strides back into the sitting room, clapping his hands together once, and beaming broadly.

 

    “All right, kids. Sorry about before. Promise the big bad angel won’t hurt you. But I think I understand a few things. So let’s just… talk it out, shall we?”

 

\---/-/---

 

    Talk. The idea is still a bit terrifying. And yet this other version of him seems so confident and so comfortable with it. Could he really be like this? In thirty years’ time, could he be that breezy? That openly affectionate with his own sweet Aziraphale?

 

    “Sure.” He nods. It’s worth a bit of pain, isn’t it? To get to be like they are… “We’ll talk.”

 

    “I just really am sorry!” Aziraphale blurts out, which is what he’d been trying to say before they’d been interrupted.

 

    “Okay, okay, hold on. Aziraphale-- I want you to think of a time that you were… that you asked Crowley to do something for you, that he didn’t need to do.”

 

    “He doesn’t have to--” Crowley starts, but Anthony holds up a hand, and he falls silent.

 

    “Do you have something in mind? Recent one?”

 

    “Yes.” Aziraphale nods.

 

    “All right. Why don’t you tell me about what happened?”

 

    “Oh, well-- You see, it was when we were looking for the antichrist-- and I’m sure this didn’t happen to you, because it’s terribly silly, and if you didn’t even have a trial or anything you mustn’t have put up with this nonsense, but-- Well, you see, there was… they shot us. With paint, I mean! And--”

 

    “That happened to us.” Anthony nods.

 

    “We rather thought we were dying.” Ezra can’t seem to help smiling a little, despite the fact he’d taken up a frosty expression as he installed himself on their loveseat. “You helped me up.”

 

    “Well, I… may have indicated strongly that I would… appreciate, if he… if he took care of a stain.”

 

    Ezra and Anthony exchange a look, which Crowley takes to mean they didn’t go through that exactly.

 

    “And I _know_ I could have done it myself!” Aziraphale looks away, _flouncing_ in his upset. Could he touch him, to calm him, the way the others do? Would it calm him? “I know they get on me for frivolous miracles, but they’d have-- there are _standards_ , and they wouldn’t want an agent on earth looking a mess, I just-- I just…”

 

    “Okay, okay, hey-- Aziraphale? Breathe.” Anthony instructs. “All right, Aziraphale, now I want you to tell me _why_ you wanted him to do it when you know you could have done it yourself.”

 

    “Well, I just… If I’d done it, I would always _know_.” Aziraphale shrugs, brow creasing with a little frown. Ezra nods in grudging agreement to that. “But then I thought… if Crowley did, then… I would still always know the stain had been there, but… instead of thinking about being shot with paint and being upset and having my favorite coat ruined, I-- I would think… I would always think about how he wouldn’t do, if he didn’t-- didn’t _care_ about me.”

 

    “All right. Crowley, how did you feel about it?”

 

    “Fine.” He shrugs, inspecting his nails. “ _Ughhhh_ , good. I-- I would have just done it when I did mine anyway, ‘s no difference to me. I waited for him to, you know. Do the thing.”

 

    “What thing?”

 

    “You know-- yours must. When he doesn’t ask, but you know he’s asking. Look, don’t make me say it.”

 

    “Puppy dog eyes, yeah?”

 

    Crowley says nothing. He feels like he’s said a hundred years’ worth of things already. He likes when Aziraphale gives him that look, the little pout he’s imagined kissing for decades-- well, all right, he’s thought about kissing it longer than that. The way he… wiggles, sometimes. The way he looks when joy courses through him at being catered to, the way he looks at Crowley like…

 

    Like he hung the moon. The moon wasn’t him, but he’s done enough stars, and… and no one knows. Even Aziraphale doesn’t know. But he looks at him sometimes like Crowley’s responsible for wonders beyond measure, and such a Light pours from him, and such a Love, and…

 

    He fumbles his sunglasses back on, so that he can blink back tears with some privacy.

 

    “Crowley, does it ever bother you when he asks you for things? Now-- don’t say ‘no’ just because you care about him and don’t want to upset him, all right? Think about it carefully.”

 

    “I don’t have to think about it, no. Not things like that. Why should it bother me? I like doing them, all right?” He snaps.

 

    “Oh, Sally Jesse Raphael, give me strength… Can you tell me _why_ you like doing them?”

 

    He makes a series of aggrieved noises, and Anthony continues to stare at him, unblinking. Crowley isn’t used to someone who can go toe to toe with him in a staring contest. He closes his eyes.

 

    “Sometimes it’s nice to feel… capable. Of making someone happy. Sometimes he… He wants the silliest things and they’re not hard to do, and-- and it feels like--” It feels like going _home_. “Good.”

 

    “You’re doing great. And has Aziraphale ever made you feel hard-used?”

 

    “N-- It’s complicated.”

 

    “Yeah, I’ll believe that.” Anthony snorts. “Go on.”

 

    “He wasn’t wrong. I just didn’t… want to. I didn’t want to stay, I didn’t want to fight, I was done. But he was right about that, I just didn’t want to do it.”

 

    “I asked too much of you.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft. “I know I did. Everything he’s said, it’s true…”

 

    “Yeah. Well. I forgive you.” He says, and dares a look to him, and sees the way his eyes grow even wider, the way his expression travels through grief and joy and love and sorrow and hope, all at once in a riot of feeling. He wants to reach up, to cup Aziraphale’s cheek in his hand, he _aches_ to. Just to _touch_ him… why can’t he just touch him, after all they’ve done? “Special circumstances. You were panicking, I was… It won’t be like that again.”

 

    “Oh, Crowley… really? Do you think?”

 

    “Yeah. Look-- in future, if I asked you for a minute, you’d give it to me, yeah?”

 

    “Yes. Of course.”

 

    “And even if you’re scared and you don’t know what to do, if I asked you, would you?”

 

    “After everything we’ve been through now, I don’t think anything could-- Yes. And if I forget, you can remind me. You can remind me I promised you and I will.”

 

    “All right. Then we’re okay. I don’t want you dwelling on everything that’s behind us, I just… I just want to believe we’ll be better.”

 

    “I’ll do my very best.” Aziraphale promises, swaying towards him. Just slightly. Just enough it would be so easy and yet he doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know how to touch someone softly, gently. The way he deserves, the way he must want. “I’ll pull my weight.”

 

    He looks so sweet, so earnest, the very idea of touching his face now is too much, but it’s the only thing Crowley wants.

 

    “Not all the time, I hope.”

 

    “Often enough. I’ll learn.”

 

    “This is really big. I appreciate the work you two are putting into this conversation.” Anthony says. “Aziraphale, are there any ways Crowley has hurt you, that you need him to address?”

 

    He shakes his head, with a little smile. “No. We-- we talked a bit. I’ve heard everything I need to.”

 

    “Crowley, are there any ways Aziraphale has hurt you, that you need him to address?”

 

    “No. Not-- not if he can just promise… promise I can get a minute if I need one. I can’t always be-- I can-- I _need_ to be strong enough for the both of us and sometimes I just need a _minute_ , that’s all.”

 

    “Why do you say that?”

 

    “Because sometimes I _need a bloody minute_!”

 

    “Er… yeah. I gathered that much. I _mean_ , why do you think you need to be strong enough for both of you? Do you feel you always need to be the sole source of strength?”

 

    “Well, look at him. He’s--” Crowley flaps a hand at Aziraphale. “He’s _gentle_. He’s all mercy, and he’s… Sometimes things need to be done and he’s not… And sometimes I’m not. I’m not enough to do it all, but I have to be. He couldn’t hurt a fly, who’s going to protect him if I don’t? And I don’t really want him to change but I haven’t got the stomach to do it all all the time.”

 

    “I think you’ll find if you give him the chance, he can step up. He came around at the end, yeah?”

 

    “Oh, _somebody_ , yeah.” Crowley nods, all his focus on Aziraphale, on the look in his eyes, so unguarded, so loving… so sad and so hopeful at once. “But he can’t do that all the time. I can’t ask him to.”

 

    “No one can do it all the time. Aziraphale, could you ask Crowley to do that all the time?”

 

    He shakes his head. “No-- no, not… There’s so much I didn’t _know_.”

 

    “Never showed you.” Crowley shrugs. “But I’ll protect you. I will. If anyone ever comes for us again, if anything ever-- I will.”

 

    “Crowley…” Aziraphale reaches up, his hand hesitating at Crowley’s sunglasses, one fingertip barely brushing the arm of them. “I know you will, _dear_ thing… but I certainly wouldn’t find much mercy in me if anyone were to hurt you. No, I don’t want to fight anyone. But… but I won’t let anything touch you now, after everything. It’s… it’s us together now, isn’t it? And if you will be my sword arm, I will be your shield.”

 

    Crowley reaches up, to the other side. They remove his glasses together.

 

    “I don’t want you to.” He admits. “I don’t want you in harm’s way. Not for me.”

 

    “I won’t if you won’t, then.” And Aziraphale’s hand finds his cheek, and he’s so warm and so soft, and Crowley doesn’t want to cry, even in front of just Aziraphale, but it’s so _much_.

 

    “Promise me. _Promise_ me you won’t… you won’t be reckless with yourself. Because I thought I lost you for good once and I-- I can’t. I can’t survive that.”

 

    “You won’t lose me.”

 

    He lets himself tip forward, his forehead to Aziraphale’s shoulder, Aziraphale drawing him on. His whole body shakes from it.

 

    “You’re my _home_ , Aziraphale. Don’t let me lose you.” He whispers, for his own Aziraphale’s ears only. “No one could Fall twice.”

 

    “ _Oh_ \-- oh, _Crowley_ …”

 

    He’s shaking, but that’s all right, because Aziraphale is, too. And his eyes are wet, but he thinks Aziraphale is with him there on that one as well.

 

    “You… oh-- _fuck_ , but you… you don’t know what you do to me.” He says. It’s all pouring out of him now, everything he’s struggled to say or not say for so long. “I make you smile and for just a moment I feel it, Grace, when you smile and it’s just for me and I _did_ that, some of the coldness in me goes away and I-- I don’t hurt so much.”

 

    “ _Take it_.” Aziraphale whispers to him, desperate. “Take it from me, take everything from me, it’s yours.”

 

    “Aziraphale, I--” He pulls back, one trembling hand finding the cheek he’d looked at at last. Notices, on coming up for air, that they have the room to themselves, and he’s not sure when that happened.

 

    “Yes?” Aziraphale smiles dizzily at him, with all the warmth of Heaven-- with the warmth Heaven hasn’t had for him in eons, and did not have when last he was there. If he notices they’re alone, Crowley doesn’t even know.

 

    Taking a kiss still feels too much. But they have touched, and been all right.

 

    An emotional wreck who can’t stop shaking, but all right.


End file.
